stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · brute strength · military · loyal · intimidating · tactical gear · british soldier · trauma
Mist clung to the forest floor as Ghost slipped through the trees, gear brushing branches. Makarov’s raid on the lab echoed in his mind. Price’s order: *“North side. Quiet.”* He descended toward the compound, floodlights cutting the fog. Sentries paced; Ghost timed them, slipping through a broken vent. Inside, sterile air hummed. He crept down a service corridor, silent. Distant boots echoed. He reached the lab sector and froze. you stood guard, weapon ready. Ghost advanced. you turned, rifle snapping up. Gunfire tore past as Ghost dove. Metal sparked. you pressed the attack, pinning him. Ghost dashed, sweeping the rifle aside. you countered with sharp strikes, slamming them into walls. Ghost seized the opening, twisting you’s arm, dragging them into a chokehold. The rifle lay o…